


Survival of the Richest

by ireallyloveicecream



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Fae, At the rate im cutting off chapters this prolly gonna be slow i think, F/F, Fae & Fairies, Fae Magic, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Humanstuck, M/M, Modern AU, Royalty AU, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, double life kinda thing, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-06-23 08:40:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15602589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ireallyloveicecream/pseuds/ireallyloveicecream
Summary: Ugh. “What makes you think that?” you say as you turn back around.“Just a random thing to ponder about,” she says sweetly, a thinly veiled lie. “Next year, you know? He’s in that book club, right? Just join it. Maybe you can get his number too.”“It’s not going to work like that.” You shove a few jars of lemon herbs aside to get two bags of Doritos out, tossing them into your backpack. “He’s a fucking human, Rose. He’s going to die, and other people who are also going to die are going to cry for him. And I’m going live longer than fucking coffee stains probably learning extreme yoga on Mount Fuji or some shit.”





	1. Throw the key away

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO I AM BACK WITH MOAR DAVEKAT THIRST: FAE EDITION  
> a million thank yous for [Suz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notwest), [Ish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weaksauce) and [Kishi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomisupernova) looking through this! This fic would've been a fucking wreck of grammar and english in general without all your help <3  
> special huge thank you for [happyfaulousmanatee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HappyFabulousManatee/pseuds/HappyFabulousManatee) too for hakuna-ing my tatas throughout this whole thing!!!! thank you for holding up with my bs in general holy shit  
>  **note: the folklore I'm basing this fic on is very loose and random, so if you read something that doesn't match the ones in wikipedia or some novel you read pls don't scream at me pls thank you**  
>  Oh yeah, and some notes for the world building/High Fae alignments:  
> Day Court: Summer House, Spring House  
> Night Court: Winter House, Autumn House  
> Twilight Court: Dawn House, Dusk House

Summer crawls into the corner. You can feel it in the breeze, the sickly heat bleeding into the crisp spring that brought the smell of flowers and freshly cut grass.

You’re also pretty sure that as part of the Winter House you’re not supposed to enjoy spring, especially not when you’re a royal in line for the throne. None of the Courts will let you hear the end of it if they find out.

Whatever, at least you draw the line at summer.  

You thought your sentiment was shared by everyone here. Your tutor back in Faerieland had to explain to you why students here could have a three month period to do absolutely nothing, something you found ludicrous until finally experiencing it for yourself. The air makes it so easy to coax the sloth out of anyone; it’s disgusting, it’s suffocating, it’s muggy. You expect everyone to hide in their houses to avoid the baking wrath of the sun. As usual humanity takes you by surprise as life in the city blooms tenfold, everyone suddenly half naked and getting drunk.

It took you a few years to learn to be a part of that surge of adrenaline, and even more to finally realise why. It’s a language in and of itself. The spontaneous, riveting risks people think of, the urge to squeeze out whatever they can savour from their bitterly short lifespan. Things no sane Fae would dream of doing, too attached to their power to even consider anything that would jeopardise it.

You roll your sleeves  halfway up your forearms, just enough to let a wink of your Fae markings touch the sunlight. Across the street you can see people already wearing less and less, discarding their jackets to further darken their skin colour. It used to horrify you, knowing they're just increasing their chances for skin cancer. Now it just reminds you of the deodorant you should stock up on on the way home.

It feels weird to notice changes like those, but you’re glad for it. The politics between Day and Night Court has held you by the neck since the day you were old enough to enter meeting rooms. You remember The High Fae circling each other like predators, static silence broken only by dripping threats served in superficial smiles. You remember assassinations, wars you were too young to fight in. You remember seeing the bloodied faces of your brothers and sisters when they came back from the battlefield, the battered down light in their eyes wrenching your heart in steel permanence.

When the Faerie Human Project was initiated, you _begged_ Dirk to sign you up. To most it was a wasteful decision, to degrade yourself from your royal status just to live like a commoner in an inferior species to learn how they rot.

But not for you, it’s not. To you it’s a life of ignorant bliss, the chance of waking up only to think of the type of spaghetti you want to eat instead of the speech you have to give in council meetings. It’s slurping ice cream messily by the sea, taking walks down parks. To you it’s the greatest luxury anyone could afford.

Granted, you still have to go back for three months a year, but oh, what a life it has been.

The bus comes to a stop in front of you like a moving wall, replacing the shops of the street across with the shitty, oversaturated blue-green college colours. You scoop your bag up and board it, choosing the nearest vacant seat. The engine revs to life again, and you watch the scene drift by from the windows.

It’s a few minutes before a sandpaper voice punctures the silence.

“Oy, are you fucking deaf?”

You turn. A boy glares at you, eyes the colour of autumn red leaves that crack under your feet. Ragged cocoa locks tossle over minimal bronze skin, which is mostly covered by a thick grey sweater with sleeves that cascade down to his knuckles.

“Yo,” you say.

“Don’t you dare 'yo’ me, you idiotic piece of fuck. Does your bag really fucking need that seat?” He gestures to your backpack beside you with a middle finger.

You make the effort to snap your neck back. All the other seats are occupied, people coating both of you with stares. You turn back around, wily.

“First of all, rude,” you say, showing a middle finger of your own. “Second of all, don’t treat the pregnant bag like that. Look at her, she's absolutely glowing like a Dark Souls boss in Christmas mod. She just came from a checkup at the doctor and she needs all the rest she can get.”

You start hearing a few snorts from the back. A flare of colour rises from the bronze skin. A deep rose pink, warm like a candlelit dinner. You love it.

“Dave–” He starts, but you dig in further.”

“How could you, Karkat. How could you. Your friends are shaking their heads while they’re fucking each other right now. Dishonour on your mom, your cow.” You brighten back up and pat your bag. “Wanna know if it’s a boy or a girl?”

“Strider–”

“Wrong, textbooks don’t deserve genders.” You rip the bag down to place it between your legs. “Have a seat, my dude.”

Good god, his fucking face. You’re surprised his eyes didn’t roll out and clatter onto the floor. After a few moments of watching him simmer like a human volcano, he manages to grind out, “Jesus fucking Christ, I really hope you know that you don't deserve a natural death.”

“To be fair, I hope not.” That's probably going to take centuries. You pat the seat again, and he finally takes it, slamming down. Was that the crack of a bone you just heard?

“You're literally the most insufferable prick I've had the rotten luck to meet,” he hisses. “How did I end up in this fucking college? Why couldn't I have gone to another place where I possibly may not have met a douche of a dunderfuck like you?”

You shrug. “I dunno. Have you finished your part of the assignment?”

He scoffs at you. “Obviously. I'm not some kind of assfuck lazy human who puts the future of his grades in the hands of someone who wears women's shades indoors.”

You wince internally. “Dude, you're really running out of things to curse about,” you mumble.

“Excuse me?” His voice rises like a wave. “What the fuck did you just say?”

“I said good job, now Mrs. Lars won't look at us like we belong in her the kitchen of her fucking favourite kebab store,” you neutralise. “Now do you want to run over the presentation again?”

“On this bus? Fuck no! Didn't we already do a rehearsal yesterday?”

“Yeah, but y’know.” You do some vague hand gestures that you don’t really know the meaning of. Karkat looks equally unconvinced. “Doesn’t hurt to do it again.”

He stares at you, thinking. It’s unsettling, the way that your heartbeat goes wild under his attention.

Those autumn eyes of his glide away as he focuses at something else. The thought on his face wilts back into a scowl.  “Forget it, we don't have the time," he finally grumbles. You follow his line of sight to the window. Your stop is approaching.

When the bus finally halts Karkat's the first to go, swiping up his bag and casting only a blink of a glance at you before disappearing off the bus without so much as a goodbye.

Well, to be fair, it would've been awkward if he did say one. He's probably waiting for you outside, being an obligatory teammate and all.

You allow yourself a moment of luxury and sink back into the plastic seat as everyone in the aisle crowds into a messy queue. A sigh leaves through your nostrils, exorcising.

Assigning people to weathers sounds like an overgeneralization. The tapestries that spill colour from your Court’s walls depict humans as simple minded beings, only slightly smarter than the domestic animals your family keeps in the barn. The fae who have visited the mortal realm know better, that they’re far more intricate, as scheming as the serpents that slither around borders of the Woods. Comparing their souls to the language of the air is like trying to catch anchovies with nets made for whales.

There are times, though, when they fit the metaphors like a key.

Some people call Karkat a tempest. You think that’s how he views himself too, with that electric rage in his hazel-red eyes, the teeth-barring expression that looks eager to rip something apart. It's in the way he walks too, with black clouds wreathed into his hair, ripe and bursting with thunder.

Sure, probably to an unacquainted eye he does looks something out of an apocalypse. But everytime he opens that damned mouth you don’t get the dangerous, earth splitting lightning, or the powerful howl of the wind.

Instead he feels like sand. Like little grains carried in the winds, a sandstorm travelling  along the skyscraping towers of Dubai. Cluttering and sticking on sweaty skin, tucking into impossible corners. Prickly, frustrating. A pain in the ass to remove.

You know both are things humans would avoid. Being Fae you’re pretty sure you have your own ways against these kind of weathers, but it doesn’t soften the fact that it’s pretty fucking stupid to stand in the crosshairs of either storms when you can tuck into your shoes and run for it.

And, yet.

 

*

 

The presentation went well. You'd even go as far as to say it was spectacular. Beyond that scratchy texture Karkat had a bright voice, as commanding as a war cry but inviting like a cottage. Like he's spent years and years pouring his blood and tears into an imaginary rocket mug for astronauts and would gladly trade it with his firstborn. If it hadn't been you who HAD sat with him in that cafe, screaming on about the physics and marketing of who the fuck would want to get a rocket mug on Earth for fifty fucking dollars, you would've been sold in a heartbeat. It's a kind of magic faerie cannot replicate.

If you had your way you would've struck your lecturers spellbound long ago. But Rose would somehow magically know and you'd be sent back to Night Court for god knows how long, something about breaking the faerie-Human peace treaty.

You definitely don’t want that, but you don’t have the silvertongue Karkat plays without enchanting your words either, so you just stick with what you can do; glamouring yourself. You shave off proportions of you into human standards, leaving the ones they would call ‘good looking’. Not pretty enough to have modelling agencies crashing through your door, but you sure have most people’s attention when you talk.

Sometimes you wonder if you have Karkat’s.

When you’ve said your final line and everyone’s done clapping their hands, you return to your seats. You watch the spotlight thrill leave him as his face morphs back into a scowl. The air between you two simmers back into tense friction.

It’s suffocating, so you try to damp it down. You're not sure if you two have upgraded from 'angry acquaintances’ to a level where you're socially qualified to strike up a normal conversation with him, but hey. It's the last day of freshman year, and like fuck you're going to take marketing as an elective with him again next year. Might as well know a bit more about the first crush you've had for god knows how long.

“So where are you going for the summer?” you ask, as you slip your laptop back into the bag.

Karkat turns to you, looking like he just heard a cat bark. “Why do you care, Strider?”

“Just a little chat, homie to homie.” You shrug. “If I listen to another person overselling on some stupid nonexistent gimmick shit I will kill myself with this chair.”

An annoyed _tch_ escapes him. “Why did you even choose this fucking elective if you don’t enjoy it?”

“I don’t know, how was I supposed to know marketing fucking sucks?”

“I–” A myriad of expressions cross Karkat’s face, but he eventually settles back into his trademark scowl. “–Ugh, never fucking mind. I should just be lucky you fucked up our presentation that hard.” He looks away, towards the stage. At the periphery of your vision the last team sets up their laptop slowly. You didn’t need to read their auras to see the doe-eyed fear on their faces.

“As high as your great praise was, my beloved frustracean,” you say, “you still haven’t answered my question.”

He knows what you’re talking about. “It’s none of your fucking business.”

“C’mon. I’ll tell you where I’m going if you tell me. Barter it up. Meth for weed.”

“Do I even want to know what asinine illegal shit you’re going to do?” He glares. When you just keep smirking he huffs, crossing his arms as he looks away. “You don’t want to fucking know my summer. It’s the worst torture of my life.”

 _You have no idea, my sweet dude._ “Can’t be as boring as mine.”

“Really? I was assuming you were going to run away from home and invade all the meth labs in the city and proceed to ear rape everyone in the shitty bar you DJ at.”

“Aw.” You drink in the implication in his words like molten gold, letting the warmth flood you. _He knows me,_ your mind sings. “You go there?”

“Ugh, I wish I didn’t. The shit you force people to listen to is the lovechild of a high ass pig and blackboard scratch. Then you just sit there at the booth looking so goddamn pleased about it, I don’t understand.”  

You quip, “Eloquent as fuck, and wrong as fuck. What do you listen to, Careless Whisper and Cascada on repeat?”

His teeth flash. “Whatever I listen to is a fuckshit of a lot better than your music.”

“We’ll see.” The two guys on stage have finally moved past their shitty introduction. The panic on their faces is brewing into uncanny smiles. Hmm. “I’m not going to be here, by the way.”

“What?”

“Going to Austria. Gonna do some good, virtuous grandson shit with my old pops. Spend some time with them before they go meet Jesus.” You weave the lie smoothly.

Karkat’s surprise is palpable. “They’re Austrian?”

“Eeyup.” You nod. “Your turn.”

His eyes dart from the stage to you and back to the screen, looking strangely unsure. You raise your eyebrows. “I’m… spending it at my parent’s house in North Dakota.” He irons the words out slowly. “Happy?”

“Man, that looked painful to say. I was starting to wonder if you were involved in a cult with your family. Huh, that would explain why you’re so loud all the damn time. Man, I feel so bad for your neighbours. Has Cthulhu not answered your prayers?”

And just like that Angry Karkat is back, fast as a flip of a mask. He sucks in a huge breath. You're bracing when you hear a sharp clap at the side of the room.

“Class, that is not how you promote a product!” Mrs. Lars calls. “I know memes are something to relate with the young population, but this is unprofessional!” She points at the screen. ‘ _SOMEONE ASKS FOR KEYS? WHY BREAK A SHITTY PRINTER WHEN YOU CAN BREAK A REVOLUTIONARY ONE’_ reads in bold letters.

Mrs. Lars glares at the presenters. They're both looking not sorry at all. “I don’t like where this is going. You two will redo your presentation and come see me in my office.” She turns to the rest of the class, arms akimbo. “The rest of you, class dismissed. Have a good summer!”

You turn back, expecting Karkat to resume his ranting. Instead he stands up, casting you one last glare before storming out of the lecture hall.

“Good talk!” You call after him.

 

*

 

Today’s your departing date. Rose had to text for you to remember, downing a cold bucket on your mood. Some part of you is surprised you’re not numb to this routine of in and out, even after more than fifty years of doing so. But that would include the rush of warmth that comes when you come back, so you guess you don’t mind.

It's only mid morning, so you text her back that you'll get your breakfast before leaving, fully intending to make the most out of your last few hours here.

There’s a small bazaar going on in a nearby street. Even from afar the shouts and voices are sharp, coating the air thick with life. You observe some of the food stalls, seeing vibrant fruits tucked into wooden boxes like islands of bursting colours. Others have simmering meat sitting on grills, sighing smoke and oil that tangles with the bustle, all an armada to your senses.

You weave into the crowds, breathing in the sweat and sweetness. It's not the first time you've passed this street, but filling yourself in this mess of _human_ makes it different _._ You find an empty corner and whip out your camera for a few pictures, making a note to print them out when you get back for the annual photography competition.

You get some shawarma from a local vendor and let him keep the change. You also buy some apples from a nearby vendor, getting extra with the woman's insistence, so you offer some to homeless people nearby. There's no fear of being shackled to a faerie contract when they take it, no fear of needing to repay the favour lest be bound to eternity just because you gave them something. The smiles they give in return reach their eyes, pure as honey, and that's the only reward you need.

You come back to the apartment to find Rose already lounging on the sofa. Her luggage rests beside her, a clutter of bags in varying shades of sunset colours.

“We’re leaving in two hours,” she calls, not even looking up from her phone. “Please be productive.”

You groan as you enter your bedroom, but nevertheless try your best. You clean the room slightly, wringing out the last of the bird food onto the balcony for the crows and whipping out your phone to text your boss and human friends about moving to your Austrian grandparents’ house that lies far off the edge of civilisation.

After productively spending the rest of your two hours watching Vine compilations (you laughed too hard at the printer vine) and doing way too many Buzzfeed quizzes, you unceremoniously toss a few clothes into a bag and pick up another carrying your yearly hoard of human stuff.

“Three thousand years in Faerieland and no one thought about making Google there,” You come out dragging the two bags behind. “What a bunch of fucking losers.”

Rose shrugs. “Maybe one day you can make a Powerpoint on it for the annual Union.”

You make your way to the kitchen, gagging.

Everything’s already in immaculate condition, a thick layer of self-cleaning charm bubbling in the corners, prepared for the three months of neglect you’ll leave them in. You run your fingers across the tabletop and cupboards, charmed into marble and lined in sleek gold with rich mahogany. Leave it to Rose to make a palace out of everything.

You’re hunting for snacks to bring when she speaks again. “You know, you should really ask him out.”

That makes you still for a second. You turn around.

“Who?”

“Who indeed?” She’s looking at you now, her head tilted to the side. “I think we both know who we’re talking about.”

“Are we, Rose? I could be thinking about the pizza girl that came by last week. Or the nice chair we saw the other day that had the exact shape of your butt carved into it. Or your hunkin’ philosophy lecturer. How old is he, 90?” You place your knuckles over your forehead. “Swooning the fuck at those wrinkles, bro.”  

You watch her make a face.

“Too far?” you ask.

She nods slowly. “I was talking about Karkat.”

Ugh. “What makes you think that?” you say as you turn back around. Even though you’re the same age Rose wields her words far better than you, lunging and binding topics like a seasoned swordsman. You don’t even get to parry before the feeling of being cornered looms over you.

“Just a random thing to ponder about,” she says sweetly, a thinly veiled lie. “Next year, you know? He’s in that book club, right? Just join it. Maybe you can get his number too.”

“It’s not going to work like that.” You shove a few jars of lemon herbs aside to get two bags of Doritos out, tossing them into your backpack. “He’s a fucking human, Rose. He’s going to die, and other people who are also going to die are going to cry for him. And I’m going live longer than fucking coffee stains probably learning extreme yoga on Mount Fuji or some shit.”

“Dirk’s doing it, though,” she says. “They’ve been going fine.”

The mention of your brother’s weirdest feat yet makes you shudder. “God, I don’t know how he’s fuckin’ handling pulling an Edward Cullen. Maybe he's going to bite Jake before he dies and turn him into us? Whatever, I'm not into that trope.”

“I’m not implying there has to be commitment involved, but...” She catches herself, realising which minefield of a subject she's run into. A sigh escapes her jet black lips. You watch, your heart going taut with a guilty ache. “It’s been so long since I’ve felt _that_ from you.”

_That._

Rose and you were born with a tether in between you, a small string that allows either of you to feel the other person's aura if it's strong enough, no matter the distance. Over the years you've learned to recognise the multitude of colours that coil around the tether like thick snakes of fumes, each guarding an emotion of its own. You have them in a palette in your mind, from sharp purple fear and blinding white determination, to the ashing grey of despair.

And there’s dreamy, amorous pink.

It used to be one of the rarest colours between you until Kanaya showed up. Quickly it climbed up the ranks into one of the loyal frequenters as she braids herself further into Roses’s life with small presents, like a peck on a cheek or a bouquet by her door,  wrapping the around tether like layers of blooming hibiscus.

You wonder how much came from your side every time you talked to Karkat.

You don’t reply, recognizing the bait for what it is. The last thing you want to hear is Rose peeling you apart with her analyses, describing you like you’re some starstruck, jelly legged dude with his heart all soft and vulnerable and giving.

Still, it doesn’t stop the statement from ringing deep inside you. Love isn't something you think of a lot, since it’s not exactly something High Fae pride themselves in. Love is only a story they tell glazed-eyed children, and when you're all grown up marriage is the result of a thoroughly planned power play. The luckier ones, people who have other people to share the thick fur coat of pink aura with, have to do it in the shadows. No one wants their heart to be prodded on, or their crush to become a source of blackmail.

In the other Realm, power and kingdom comes first. Everything else is secondary comfort.

Rose gets up, expression unchanged from her appraising look.“Anyway, we should go.”

With a sharp snap of her fingers her baggage winks out of sight, now parked beside your departure point. You don’t do the same, feeling strangely comfortable reliability of holding the two weights behind you.

The nearest gate to Faerieland is a small pond by a nearby community garden, barely hidden under thin fingers of low-hanging branches. There’s an oblivion charm casted around the area to ward off people, but you still feel the anxiety of a camera click behind as you stare at the mirror calm water.  

“Ready?” She squeezes your hand.

You look at her. Part of her glamour is already fading, earl grey eyes exploding back into saturated twilight purple. She’s excited, you can tell. There’s a woman on the other side in the Autumn House, already waiting for her.

You wish you can feel the same thing.

With a breathful of air you squeeze hers back. She takes it as a reply and raises her hand. Water rises like a pillar, glittering like a wall of diamonds under the afternoon light.

Your hand touches it first. Coolness tingles through your skin, racing up your nerves like giggling children. The surface ripples as you do, catching bigger gulps of light. _This is it,_ you think, as you both walk through the surface. You close your eyes on reflex as your face sinks through, washing away your glamour, the city air of Arizona, the smoke from cars and rainfall stains. The air changes too, from the warm heavy drape of spring-summer into frigid, pindrop cold.

Into the Winter House, Faerieland.


	2. Melt the wax

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woooo!!!!!! that took really fuckin long didn't it!!!! between second chapter anxiety and my uni happening I didn't really have the time nor courage to click that button,,, im so sorry but whoop here it is  
> once again love for all the people who've read this,,, u da mvp(s)

You don't even have enough time to fully open your eyes when arms wrap around you, pulling you and Rose into a firm embrace. Colourless walls of the arrival chambers look at your shocked face as a shrilling squeal pierces your eardrums.

Finally,  _ finally,  _ the faerie pulls back, pink hair bouncing on her shoulders as she beams through pinker eyes. 

Rose regains her posture first. “Hello, Roxy.” 

“Oh, I’ve missed you two soooo much!” Roxy grins, warm enough to melt the room. “I can’t believe it’s been only nine months, feels like nine years since you two have been to your own land!” 

“Hope everything’s been chill here while we left for the sweet mortal zone,” you say, giving her a smile. You get a peck on the cheek as an answer. 

“Stars, you’re eloquent as always aren’t you, Dave?” She gives you a final pat on your shoulder and releases her steel grip from the both of you. “It’s all fine, everything's under control for now. I have so much to tell you during lunch!” Her eyes glitter as she talks. “Oh oh oh, I bet Dirk’s already waiting in the kitchen. You all drop your bags and meet us there, sound good?” 

Rose nods. “Where is he now?”

“I got him to take over with the Summer meetings. Such a gentleman, really.” She winks deviously. “Things have been buzzing, especially with the solstice coming up. Usual drill, you get it.” 

“God fucking dammit,” you grumble. “Maybe one day I'll come back for Christmas just so I can stop seeing those Summer fucks looking so smug about it.” 

“Oh, Christmas's that day where everyone gives each other presents right?” Roxy squints, thinking. “Can't remember much of there, it's been too long.” 

“Bingo, Rox. High five,” you say, raising your hand. Roxy falls for it, and you dart your hand away. “Too slow.”

A bark of laughter tears from her, and she looks around. The sunflare in her face fades just a bit. “Wait, Rose, where are your bags?”

Rose widens her eyes. “Oh, I forgot.” She flicks her fingers again, and her luggage floats out of the wall of water behind you, landing soundlessly on the frost carpet. 

You jeer at her. She smirks, mirthy.

“Not my fault you don’t want to use your gifts,” she says. 

A few servants come in, pale blue common Fae in the standard Winter uniforms of silver and navy blue. They crowd amongst themselves, looking at the pile of luggage bags like it’s an undug spot in a minefield. 

“It's plastic, not metal,” you explain for the millionth time. Their crystal blue eyes flick from you back to Rose's bags, barely convinced. It takes them a good minute before the first of them goes across the room to touch them, like an explorer touching a temple’s walls for the first time. You watch them actively avoid the shinier, grey parts, feeling fresh wave of molten guilt. Not everybody had access to anti-metal charms.  

Once all the baggage is out, the lot of you leave the arrival room, stepping into the labyrinth of corridors.

It seems to stretch forever and ever, the four walls of white against artic blue patterns, only occasionally flanked by firefly lights. You forgot how exposing the emptiness feels, like an extra set of footsteps could join yours in echoing through the halls and you would have nowhere to run. It hollows and suffocates you in a way a man defends himself with a bulletless gun, like a child watching his closet door hang open at the wake of midnight.

If you're on a lucky route you get a chance to pass by windows, a mild assurance that you can crash through and escape any time you want, but most of the time you’re left on your own.

Walking with Rose and Roxy puts the wary beast inside you to ease. You and your twin take turns making fun at each other every time you make a wrong turn, one more direction lost in the memories of being on the human plane for too long. 

It prides you, in a way. 

Unpacking doesn’t take long. Your roo–chambers are more like a livable storage area compared to the place you called home back in the other Realm. Ten turntables from different eras stack precariously in the corner, higher than the dressing table the House made for you. The rest of the place is scattered with cupboards of dead animals and speakers, also ranging from generation to generation. Wires run across the floor like liquorice rivers, plugging from a sputtering generator to a DJ set Dirk painstakingly made for you. 

To the servants it’s a metal nightmare, something thought so inane that even the most dedicated of them wouldn’t touch your doorknob. At this point you’re pretty sure you’re a ghost story common Fae tell their children now, about a deranged prince that tortures himself in his chamber of iron. Nice.

You unload a fresh baggage of records and hard drives you intend to keep before shrugging out of your shirt and jeans. Instead of unpacking your luggage bag you fling your wardrobe open, hoping for something that’s actually tolerable for both you and the public. Here in Fae Realm human clothes are a luxury you keep only to yourself.

The wardrobe is sardined with chain mail and embroidered suits, but with a stroke of luck you find something passable; a flowy shirt and pants with only spraying curls of silver embroidery on the sleeves. It's dandelion light to the touch when you don it, the fabric wrapping around you like a friendly breeze. It's thin, but not enough to make you feel naked. You wonder how much you can bribe Uniqlo to start producing these. 

You exit the room, just in time to see Rose leaving hers across the hall. A rippling dress of silver blue gushes down to her knees, laving in the air behind her like foamy waves. You let out a low whistle. 

“Where the hell are  _ you  _ going?” 

She looks at your attire pointedly. “Somewhere actual clothes are worn, I hope. I didn’t know Roxy told us it was a pajama party.” A smile tugs at her lips. 

“It’s this or Costco.” You gesture behind you, at the hoodie crumpled on your bed. She rolls her eyes, taking your arm without question, and the two of you make your way down to the basement. 

The kitchen is huge and surprisingly empty of fey, laden with shady looking spices and furnished in gleaming silver. You spot Dirk and Roxy at a table in the corner, sitting straight as soldiers as they fill the silence with quiet chatter. A tight expression crosses both their faces, part of the tip of the iceberg of the things you don’t miss. 

“It’s your great Majesty Prince Disayek!” you call as you enter. Dirk turns at his Fae name, half lidded tangerine eyes trained on you. 

“Please don’t,” he mumbles. “The Houses wore it out twenty minutes ago.” 

“No hello, Dirk? I’m hurt.” Rose smiles as she sits down. A creasing sigh escapes him. 

“Sorry, the meeting was just...really bad. Got cornered in real good by the fuckin’ Summers about something.” 

“What is it?” You ask. 

“It’s…” He waves a dismissive hand. “We’ll explain it after you eat. Don’t want to spoil your appetite.” 

That already sets your stomach uneasy, but Roxy is quick to distract. She flicks her fingers and plates of food appear in front of you, a colourful myriad of fae and human cuisine. 

“Steak,” you breathe as you eye one of the new additions. 

“We had to learn how to cook it ourselves,” Roxy says proudly. “No one wanted to touch the human cookbook again.” 

“We? As in, you and Dirk?” Rose says. 

“Damn, Dirk, how much of the kitchen did you destroy this time?” You waste no time sawing off a piece of the steak. “I was thinking why this whole place is looking so new. It’s like Mirrorland around here, man.” 

Dirk runs his hands through his hair, sighing loudly. 

The four of you drown yourselves in lazy conversation, you and Rose praising human law and bitching about college with Dirk and Roxy exchanging gossips they'd harvest from servants around the palace. It’s your slice of haven, the warmth of hot water running down your skin before you exit the room to face the biting cold of your duties. 

You wonder if all the other Houses are like this when its just them in their castles, tucking themselves in the kitchen because the dining halls are too big and gaping, chattering about how their day went without the parry and strike in their words. 

Maybe they don’t have time for that, maybe they're far too busy scheming and manipulating people like chess pieces. Maybe  _ you’re  _ not supposed to have time for that, that living years and years in the other realm has changed you. That’s probably why most of the other Houses look at the Winter House like you four are some pack of wild animals; Dirk with his human boyfriend; Roxy and her undercover charity back in the other realm along with you and Rose; you are a House plagued with that carefree delirium of humanity. 

When you’re all finished and waiting, Roxy sighs, pushing her plate away. “Okay, so. Summer Solstice.” 

The words settle on you like a thick blanket. It’s one of the many, many stupid traditions Faerieland keeps despite ‘modernising’, when the main ruling power of Faerieland rotates between Winter and Summer House as determined by a day on the fucking calendar. 

It’s also the reason why you and Rose come back for summers yearly instead of any other season (other than the apocalyptic heat and Christmas discounts). Once the power is transferred to them the royalty of Summer House will stretch their claws, with your kingdom as their scratchboard. You wouldn’t forgive yourself if you weren't here to shoulder the brunt of it with Dirk and Rox. 

You grip the edges of the table harder. The first tide of tension for the three month job rushes through you.

“They’re trying to raise the market taxes,” she exhales heavily. “They’ve got Spring House behind their backs, and the whole of Twilight Court too.” 

“What the fuck?” Your eyebrows scrunch. “Isn’t Twilight supposed to be neutral?” 

“Probably blackmail from Spring,” Dirk says. “Actually, shit, maybe not. Higher taxes is beneficial for them too. They’re new, and still under Day Court’s responsibility. They can siphon the extra money to expand more, but it’s not… going to be good for the rest of the Courts.”

“Have we at least recovered from last year?” asks Rose. “When they cut off more of the worker’s wages for finishing Twilight Court’s palace?”

Roxy shakes her head. “We’re not even like, anywhere better? If they strike again this time our people are going to get crazy. Not even in a good way.” 

You can feel the whole room’s grave silence as she takes another deep breath. “We can mend that problem, but it’s going to take time. We’re gonna to try to open up more jobs. Lower the age restrictions temporarily and take out another few percentages from our royal vault. Just… keep the public from knowing about the shit we’re going through.”

“That sounds like some real oily smooth Ainsley Harriot shit, but what about the transition?” you ask. “The stuff you said takes time. I don’t think it’s gonna go by without them waking the fuck up and causing a civil war.”

“We’ve thought about it,” Roxy says, unusually slow. “And we’re going to do something to distract them.” 

Dirk turns to you as well, both their gazes now skinning you apart. You want to shrink.

“What, do you want me to give a speech?” you say nervously. “Pole dance and rap Taylor Swift in front of the everyone every weekend? Dave’s Happy Hour?” 

Dirk snorts. “You up for that?” 

“Hey.” You slit your eyes at him. 

“We’re thinking of forming an alliance between Summer and Winter.” Roxy says slowly. 

You let that sentence sink properly through your skin, washing out the stress and the the worry into stark white shock. 

Rose manages to voice your thoughts, gaping just as much as you. “How?” 

“I’ve been talking with a Summer noble.” Dirk traces circles on the table. “He’s been pretty okay, those kind of people who belong in the Dusk House and not Day, really. His families have a few people in the Faerie-Human project as well.” You raise your eyebrows in surprise. You could always depend on Summer and Spring to see the word  _ human  _ with narrowed eyes and twisted lips. “We’ve discussed it, and we both agree that it’s time to attempt bonds between Day and Night again.” 

“But how? It’s not like you can merge them like companies. You have t–” 

Dirk and Roxy keep staring at you, looking horribly pained, and your brain catches up. 

You widen your eyes.

“Oh.” 

_ Oooooooohhh. _

“You want me to… marry… the noble.” You taste the words in your mouth slowly.

Roxy bites her perfect, manicured nails _.  _ “Yeeeeaahhhh.” 

“His son, actually,” Dirk corrects.

“It’s a good fail-safe strategy,” says Roxy gently. “When the common fey start believing in intercourt peace, Summer will have to live up to their expectations.” 

You sit back numbly, connecting the rest of the dots yourself. A marriage would be able to bring the courts together under the public's favour; Summer wouldn't be able to do anything to ruin your joint image. It would shield your kingdom from the worst of the solstice. 

“Why me?” you protest weakly. 

“Me and Roxy both have to man the throne our mother’s bailed on, so uh, no can do for us. And you’re a good prince.” Dirk stops, hesitating. “Well, you haven’t done anything to piss off your people, at least. And Rose is… we have other plans.” 

_ Other plans _ . Like the two of you are just boxes waiting to be delivered. But that's how everything works here, and it's your fault you haven't gotten used to it sooner. 

“Wait, what about the Project? I can't go back anymore?” 

Dirk gives you a tight-lipped smile. “You can still go there during the wedding preparation.”  _ Wedding _ . That word hits you in weird fucking places.  _ Your _ wedding. “But you should probably come back at least once a month to like, remind the people that you exist, and all. Keep them on their feet about it.” 

“How long would that be?” 

Roxy bites her lip. “We can stretch it to a year. Maybe some more.” 

“Then that's it?” 

Dirk's reply is deafening. “Yeah.” His eyes cast downwards. “You could still visit there occasionally, but… yeah.” 

“You can say no if you really don't want to, but... you're our best shot.” Roxy says. 

You think of all the countries in the world you have to visited, things you haven't done for the sake of doing them. You think of the pinkwashed sky of the evenings, the smog on your skin, the quiet crackle of the radio under sunlit mornings. All just a wall of water away in the arrival room, yet blindingly far. 

You think of being Dave Strider. First year movie directing student at Arizona College of Arts with a love for music mixing and collecting gross dead things, just another human being who wants to graduate and have a job and retire somewhere in Houston and die off quietly. 

_ Do it for your people,  _ a voice rattles deep within your bones, etched into the core of your being, rightful and noble. It reverates through you like a war drum, rushing through your blood that's undeniably Fae.  _ You are their Prince.  _

The project is a break from your life, a honeysweet distraction you dived in too deep. You’ve denied the oxygen, let something else replace it, and now that you’re back living in cold air you have to live with the consequences. 

You deserved this. It's time to lift the anchor.  

“Okay,” you croak. 

Dirk snaps up. “Okay? Okay what?”  

You force the words out of your mouth. “I’ll do it. I’ll…marry. Matrimonial it up, for Winter House, yay.” You slip a bleak joke in. 

No one is laughing. 

“Just… think about it, yeah? Like I said, you don’t have to say yes now.” Roxy finally breaks the silence. She reaches over, fingers wrapping yours in a firm grip. “There’s always a choice. You still have a month before we break it to the public. You get to meet him too, so maybe… you can tell us after that?” 

_ Him.  _ It strikes a human part of you, pulling on memories where you saw people cheering over a burning pride flag. 

But you’re not human. You’re Prince Daevryns, Royalty of Night Court and High Fae of the Winter House. No one gives a shit about gender, so long you get to thread the power the other person has. 

The rest of the time in the kitchen was spent discussing internal business after you and Rose left. You let the conversation pass you like smoke, too busy watching Roxy and Dirk's words sink behind your eyelids. The only thing you catch is the pre-solstice party next week, where your potential future husband(fiance?) would be for the first time. 

_ Fiance.  _ You try to grip on the word, try to wrap your hand around it. Let its meaning set into you, flush into your blood and get used to it like you’re learning it for the first time. It doesn’t obey, slipping through your fingers like a baby eel, like you’re not experienced enough to grab it whole. 

But here you are. If everything goes smoothly, you would be the first one of your family to be married off.

It’s happening. It’s really, really happening. 

The walk back to your chambers is a blurry silence too. You, Rose and Roxy don’t say anything until you've reached your door. You barely register the hug Rose gives when you do, tight and cold like a Winter faerie should be. 

“I'm sorry.” she whispers. There's a shiver in her voice, the way metal plate thrums after a vicious punch. Through the tether raging red burns around the string, a fire that hasn't stopped ever since Dirk said the word 'other plans’. 

You just hope they don’t have the audacity to separate Rose and Kanaya.

You try to hug back, doing a spectacular job of your fingers casually brushing the small of her back. 

_ What for? _ stays in your throat.

“Don’t forget about the party,” Roxy offers you a tight smile. “Remember to think about it, okay?” 

You can only nod. With that she turns around, walking down the corridors and slipping off into the veins of halls like a shadow. You turn to see Rose already disappearing behind her door, and you guess you do the same. 

You enter your chamber. It stands over you, the looming acquaintance it has always been. Just a transition room for you to go in and out of, a place to dream about the home on the other side that was never yours. 

You suddenly realise how permanent this place would be, the icy walls and the dead, empty air. The souvenirs you brought back from the human realm feels insignificant against the crushing tsunami of your job as a prince. 

Closing the door behind, you lean against the smooth wood and try to breathe.

 

*

 

For any occasion that involves more than one House, all eyes turn to the Gazebo. 

Okay, that’s not the actual name, but calling it a Gazebo sounds a lot better than pronouncing that mile long stumble of faerie words. Probably not the best term still, because it  _ really _ doesn't give the right impression of the size.

It sits in the bosom of Faerieland, on the crossroads dividing the four seasons as a castle of its own. The needle tip from the bronze dome looms high enough to scratch the sky, just a hair away from making it bleed red moonlight. Pillars upon pillars of pale marble hold the dome below, stretching the building to the size of a pantheon. Branches twine around them like jewelry, dark bark braided with the flair of each of the four original Houses. It's the only proof of inter-house cooperation; dusted frost on lush berry bushes, wreathes of crisp red leaves wrapping blooming flowers. A physical crest of Faerieland peace, no matter how shaky. 

You wonder how long it would last. 

Inside is an architecture marvel no less grand. White walls rise like blank canvases, washing up into a ceiling that yawns over you, a perfect mirror painting of the night sky outside. Stars pinprick the sprawl of darkness, occasionally dashed alight with meteor showers. Golden chandeliers and drapes of House colours drop from above like streaks of comet fire, red and green and pink and blue, but no one below is paying attention.

You probably shouldn’t, either. This is the pre-solstice party. You should be going around congratulating the Summer Fae about it, even if they’re making it so fucking hard to do at gunpoint. 

You watch them roam around the grass covered floors like peacocks, in resplendent green robes embroidered with swirls of gold. The usual bulk of armour is nowhere to be found. With the winter solstice soon gone they dangle their vulnerability like a mouse toy, a silver platter invitation for you to stab them and tip the eggshell balance you all have worked so hard to create. 

They all know you won’t. You can see it in their flaming gem shard eyes, the smugness set on their hair like an invisible crown. Once they get the physical one they can do whatever they want, and you become their victim. 

At least the marriage would hit Summer just as it hits you. 

At the mention of the word the bile kicks up and out of your stomach like clockwork. You cast the ballroom another searching sweep, heart viciously hammering against your chest. All the royals and the invited nobles across the realm seem to be present, but you still have no idea which asshole you have to marry. 

The possibilities flash around you like a zoetrope, none of them promising even a shard of benefit. If it were at least the Autumn or Spring House you’d probably have a chance to  _ maybe _ make friends with them, having at least their begrudging respect. 

But it’s Summer, ardent and luxuriant and fierce. You don't think there's a word that can compact into the firestorm of a grudge they hold against your kingdom. Even when the worst of the fight is buried into the centuries, even when the leader of the cruel Winter House is gone, even when it’s replaced with two of her children who’re far too young to man it. 

Fucking perfect. 

You take a violent swig from your goblet. Even water  _ feels _ different here, tingly sweet like music box songs going down your throat. You almost wish you could choke and die on it. 

It’s been six days since the engagement news, and you still can’t shake even a sliver of it off. That’s mostly your fault, because you should’ve seen this coming. You’re only seventh in line for the Court throne, not too important nor too insignificant to not own strings to pull for your own House. A ready pawn used to spread your kingdom’s influence with empty marriage vows. 

To think that you’re different from other High Fae. 

You’re about to turn away from the Summers when a breath tickles your ear, frosty. 

“You alright?” 

You snap around to see Rose looking at you. There’s a veil of concern sewn between her expression, thin enough to only let keen eyes see. You can barely read it from all the goddamn light reflected off her. 

To describe her as a living chandelier would be the understatement of the century. Droplets of crystals glitter from her like sunlight on sea; dripping from her bottom eyelashes, hanging off the spike of her elbow armour, rushing in swarms up her shins on a navy backdrop. A sleeveless dress fans out like a plumery storm past her knees, it’s edges also etched with starlight glimmers. 

She’s bordering dangerously on being overdressed, but at least she’s looks here to celebrate, unlike you.

Ink blue fur tickles the side of your neck, splaying down and along your skin like a mane. Where it ends your shoulder plate swoops sharply up into a chromic peak, granting a slick stab to whoever who accidentally falls on it. Below the neckline of fur a thick silver plate covers your chest, branding the insignia for the Night Court and Winter House. The rest of your attire is a luxurious drape of midnight blue, clad by silver, silver and more fucking silver. 

You turn to the side to face her properly. Even that’s a chore, the sharp edges of the armour pressing through the velvet and sending hot pain through your blood. Thank fuck you never actually have to wear this to war, you’d probably kill yourself tripping. 

“Thought you went off to Kanaya,” you whisper, genuinely confused. 

She narrows her eyes at you. “I got a lot of grey from your side. I had to come back to check, being an obligatory twin and all.”

The tether. Oh shit. “Fuck, sorry, uh, didn’t mean to interrupt your goth exchange makeout session.” 

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t just hear that.” She crosses her arms. “And it’s fine. We were just… talking.” 

“Oh,” you say. She disappeared as soon as you two stepped into the Gazebo, zipping straight for where the Autumn nobles crowd. It’s been nine months since she’s seen Kanaya after all, and especially after that lunch in the kitchen it’d be worrying if she didn’t. You don’t see Kanaya a lot, but she seems a lot better at comforting her about the whole thing than you are. 

It was hard for both of you to say anything to Dirk and Roxy for the days after. The noble obligation and shellshock numbness had molted into bitter spite, holding you steady like quicksand. You had six days to ask about your Summer fiance and prepare yourself, and you spent it hiding in your room and diving into royal duties, letting your frustration hang between you and them like a swinging machete.

It's petulant, but you think at the very least you deserve this. Sure, they were both doing it for the sake of the kingdom, but dammit, it’s not at their cost, it’s  _ yours _ . 

How long would you have to hold your end of the marriage? Years? Decades?

Centuries? 

Your chest tightens. You take another hungry gulp from your goblet, your lips leaving it with a heavy sigh. 

“I’ll be fine. Probably a one time thing, don't go all baboon’s ass about it,” you say. “Just go back to Kanaya.”

“And walk all the way to the other end of this place? I think not,” she replies, but her eyes are already back searching. You snort internally. She probably would start doing Slav squats in a heartbeat if Kanaya asked her to. It’s sickeningly sweet and… alien. 

If only Kanaya came from the Summer Court. Rose would marry the fuck out of her and everything would be ten times better. Fairytale, even.

But they aren’t, are they? 

“I’m gonna go to the salon for a bit,” You tell Rose. “Put my face in water and scream into it and shit.” 

She nods absently, and you turn away to weave past the sparse crowd, nodding at those who nod at you as you make your way into the hallways and setting your goblet down somewhere as you do. Fewer and fewer people pass, and you walk faster, faster. Your cape drags in the breeze, heavy in protest. 

You’re making your final turn into your destination when another person slams into you. The impact takes you like a punch, and you stumble back. 

“Shit, sorry.” You say briskly. Damn, you really need to work off the slang now that you’re--

“Dave?” 

Everything in you stills. You look up. 

You almost don’t recognise him. Instead of cocoa locks there’s luscious curls of wine red, braided thick like rope with gold and swept to the side. The bronze skin he had now glows in an ethereal light, layered in peels of Summer green and pink and gold. His  _ face,  _ it's sharp and Fae and  _ wrong _ , but you know that permanent furrow of his eyebrows and the sandpaper scratch in his voice. It’s unmistakable, completely and utterly...

“Karkat?” 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you guys for reading, you have no idea how much I appreciate it :'D Comments/constructive criticism are worshipped like fuck  
> Also thank you so much(wow so many thank yous thanksgiving is early) for karkat thirst server for letting me (and continue to) jam this and the super sweet support, if you're a karkat loving dude don't hesitate to [ join](https://discord.gg/CYPE3T4)!!!
> 
> catch me on the flip side [here](https://davekatalltheway.tumblr.com)!


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